


The truth will set you free (but first it will piss Molly off)

by OhAine



Series: Simple Chemistry [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drugged Sherlock, F/M, Fluff, Humour, Sherlolly - Freeform, Truth serum as an aid to romantic declarations, but in a good way, mollock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 05:09:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8476558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhAine/pseuds/OhAine
Summary: "Falling in…like…with someone isn’t very pleasant, is it?"





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [likingthistoomuch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/likingthistoomuch/gifts).



> I own nothing: ACD, Mofftiss, the Divine Miss B and Cumberbatch's curls have it all. Title shamelessly ripped off from the famous Gloria Steinem quote.
> 
> Thanks to waitingtobedistributed for the ignition prompt 'Can I play with your hair?' and six others, all of which I managed to use.
> 
> Beta'd by MaybeItsJustMyType, who worked her socks off on all 9,273 drafts of this, on a tight deadline, and with never ending grace and kindness. It's infinitely better because of her. Love you Kiki x
> 
> Gifted to the incredibly talented likingthistoomuch, because I adore her, and because if I managed to get my dates right, today is a special day for her. Happy Birthday Gee x

 

**oOo**

 

"Can I play with your hair?"

　

The edge of Molly’s mattress dipped in the darkness, as a certain consulting detective stumbled onto her bed, more bull in a china shop than his usual balletic elegance. Opening a single bleary eye, she turned on the bedside lamp to be greeted by a dishevelled looking Sherlock, curls wild and in disarray, with his trousers wrapped tightly around his ankles as he tried to pull them off over his shoes. His shirt, unbuttoned, hung loosely from his pale, angular, shoulders. He looked at the sleepy pathologist, his eyes dark glistening pools, his pupils not constricting despite the sudden increase of light.

 

Molly deflated like a punctured balloon.

　

"Oh, Sherlock. What on earth have you taken?" She asked, her sleep honeyed voice weighed down by exasperation and disappointment.

　

Sherlock, finally figuring out why his trousers were refusing to co-operate with his plan to undress, tugged at his shoes and socks and freed himself of his clothing. Triumphant over his crepe wool arch nemesis, and naked as the day he was born, he climbed into bed beside Molly, who was now propped up on one elbow, her lips pressed to a thin worried line, her cheeks stained with a furious blush of anger.

　

Falling heavily into the soft pillows, on what had become his side of the bed, grinning dopily at her, he reached for Molly’s auburn tresses, "I’ll answer your question when you’ve answered mine." He tried to twirl a strand around his finger tip but she swotted his hand away, to which he muttered – sounding a tad indignant - "Rude."

　

"No, Sherlock, you may not play with my hair-"

　

"Aww," sulking like a sullen child, his plump bottom lip protruded in a ridiculous pout.

　

"-and you better tell me what you’ve taken. _Quickly_ , in case you need a doctor."

　

"You’re a doctor, I need you." He gave her a heavy lidded, dreamy smile, sighing in sheer contentment when she brushed his hair away from his forehead to get a better look at his pupillary responses.

　

"I’m a pathologist, you’re not in need of a pathologist." Attempting to reassess his condition, she took his pulse, watching his chest rise and fall, "At least I hope not. No, I meant call John."

　

"I don’t want John," complained a far too relaxed Sherlock. "He looks like a garden gnome, and he smells funny too. No, I want you." He curled into her, "You’re all cute, and sweet and deadly. And you smell like flowers and formaldehyde. Much nicer."

　

" _Sherlock_ ," Molly felt a wave of exasperation wash over her.

 

"Fine," he sighed, "Sodium Pentothal, and some other…enhancers. I’m experimenting with creating a truth serum, and I needed a human test subject."

　

"So you shot yourself up with an untested drug?" _Dear. God._ Molly radiated incredulity.

 

"Seemed like the obvious solution." Well, yes, it had seemed like a good idea at the time, but if truth be told (no pun intended), it was starting to look more and more like he’d cocked up – Molly wasn’t responding the way he intended, and his brain felt…floopy.

 

"You should be in hospital," she pointed out when the astonishment at his stupidity had (almost) passed. Reaching for her mobile Molly began to dial 999.

　

"Eh, no. Already been. Hudders made me go.” His lip curling into a sly grin, Sherlock snatched the phone from her hand, and nestled up against her once more. "But I wanted to see you, so I climbed out the window."

 

When she attempted to pull out of his snuggle-slash-wrestle hold, he protested, "Oi! Where are you going?!"

　

"Up," she pulled him with her, "you need to be on your feet, I want to see how steady you are, and you need to start taking fluids to flush that…that… _poison_ from your system."

　

Mr Tall, Dark and Stoned dutifully allowed himself to be led, naked, into her kitchen and sat down on an icy vinyl chair.

 

Sherlock glared at her with an air of well-practiced suffering, "My tushy is cold."

　

His-? Dear. God.

 

"No one is stopping you from putting your clothes on."

 

"You walk around my mind palace naked all the time and I never insist on societal convention by asking you to put your clothes on."

 

Molly inwardly rolled her eyes. "Sherlock, why on earth would you come here? You should have stayed at the hospital until your system had been flushed of the drugs." She stabilised the wobbly detective, and grabbing her Gran’s crochet throw, she wrapped him snugly. Pouring him a glass of water, Doctor Hooper ordered, "Drink."

　

Obediently he downed the glass in three hard gulps.

　

"Are you going to make me drink coffee too? Because your coffee tastes like pig swill."

　

“You ungrateful sod-”

　

"No, no." He flapped his hand impatiently, the _‘don’t be an idiot’_ was implied, "I’d still rather have your bad coffee than anyone else’s finest."

　

Molly filled her kettle, flipped the switch and took a deep, cleansing breath, "Shall we start again? Hmm? Why did you come here when you should be in hospital?"

 

"Because they say the truth will set you free. Although," he furrowed his brow, "so far it’s only succeeded in pissing you off."

　

"What exactly is it you want to be free of?" Molly asked curiously.

　

He downed the second glass of water Molly passed to him in one go. "That flirty Neanderthal from the Met. Lestrade."

　

"Greg’s been flirting with you?" Molly didn’t sound at all convinced.

　

"Who the hell’s Greg?" Sherlock’s nose crinkled in confusion.

　

"Lestrade, Sherlock."

　

"Oh," he examined his fingers then poked them through the holes in Gran Hooper’s throw, and wiggled them in what he hoped was a seductive manner at Molly. "Not with me. You. He’s been flirting with you."

 

"No he hasn’t," Molly laughed.

 

 _Well, no more than usual,_ she thought. Molly and Greg had always teased each other with good-humoured banter, but neither of them meant anything by it.

 

For all Sherlock saw, he was ridiculously blind when it came to sexual chemistry. Anyone with eyes in their head could see that Greg had the hots for a certain umbrella wielding despot, and well, Molly only ever had truly cared for just one man, the one whose…thing, was poking out obscenely from under Granny’s blanket. Molly tried to avert her eyes (which was difficult, because as far as ‘ _things’_ went, Sherlock had a very nice one), and counted three heaped spoonful’s of instant coffee powder into a mug.

　

Apropos of nothing, he said in a dejected voice, "Isn’t it strange how you never really realise how much you like someone until you see them liking someone else?"

 

Setting a mug of steaming coffee in front of him, Sherlock looked up at Molly balefully. He frowned and his brows knitted together, "Falling in…like…with someone isn’t very pleasant, is it? Especially if they’re not falling with you." Taking her hand, his face wretched with abject longing, he said, "I didn’t know how lucky I was, how much I had," he swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing, "until you were gone."

 

"Greg hasn’t been flirting with me." Molly reassured, "And even if he did, I wouldn’t flirt back."

 

"Wouldn’t you?" He asked optimistically.

　

"No," she sighed, stroking his crown of dark curls fondly, "he’s just not my type."

　

She knelt in front of him, taking his hands in hers, and he smiled weakly. What was she supposed to say? She knew he had feelings for her, though she never really believed he’d admit to them. Always so determined to be alone, even when it was so obvious that he craved... That he craved.

　

Really the ethical thing to do would be to stop him from talking about it now. Whatever he’d shot into his system had compromised his ability to think clearly, and he was sure to regret everything he was telling her once whatever it was had worn off. Their friendship would be ruined, once he realised what he’d said, he’d never look her in the eye again.

　

Molly passed him the steaming mug and rested her palm against his cheek in a fleeting caress. Sherlock’s skin was warm and soft under hers, her heart fluttered at the contact.

　

"I know that you don’t know what you’re saying," she kissed his hands, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on them, "and because I’m your friend, I’m going to stop you from saying something that you’d really rather I didn’t hear."

 

"Molly-"

　

"It’s for the best. You’ll thank me tomorrow."

　

"But I want you," he gave her an honest, lopsided smile. When she sighed and pulled away, he held her, not letting her go. "It’s true. I lie awake at night thinking about how cute your nose is, how lovely your hair is... Oh!" he looked at her with sudden glee, "Can I play with your hair?"

　

"We’ve already had this discussion, Sherlock."

　

"Have we?"

　

"Yes."

　

"And what was the outcome?"

　

"That it would be best if you didn’t."

　

Sherlock snorted derisively, "That doesn’t sound like something I would have agreed to."

 

"Nevertheless you did-"

 

“Dammit all to hell. Now I’ve lost my train of thought. What was I saying? Yes, that was it, I think about how lovely your mouth is, and how perfect your breasts are." When he saw Molly’s look of astonishment, he clasped her face between his hands and squished her cheeks. "I think about things that I wish would happen."

　

"Like what?" Her voice came out much lower and more interested than she’d intended.

　

"Like, we’re trapped in a broom closet and no one can hear us shout for help. Our bodies are all squashed together, you in your sexy lab coat and glasses, your breasts pressed against me, and you say, ‘ _I think we’re going to die here, will you grant me one last wish?_ ’ and you press your mouth against mine. Or I come home to Baker Street, only to find you in my bed, your hair tousled, wearing nothing but Chanel No. 19 and a smile. Or…Oh! My favourite one! I’ve injured my thigh, and you – dressed as a slutty nurse – tell me to lie down, as you take my trousers off and your mouth lowers to my-"

　

"Sherlock!"

　

"-that’s the one I wank off to."

　

"Enough!" Molly at the end of her tether, held her hands up. "Stop right there. Sherlock, you’re high as a kite, you don’t know what you’re saying. And even if you did you’d regret it all anyway once you’ve sobered up."

　

"But it’s the truth!"

　

“Fuck’s sake Sherlock.”

　

In response to her aggravation, Sherlock tossed his head back, draping himself over the chair, less than subtly watching her from beneath coyly batted lashes.

　

"What in fuck’s name are you doing now, Sherlock?"

　

"It’s ritualistic courtship. I’m seducing you by presenting my most desirable features. In the animal kingdom, a peacock would display its feathers, or a lion its mane. I’m baring my throat to you, demonstrating my willingness to mate, and in the process arousing sexual desire on your part.” He looked her over, making an attempt at deduction but failing miserably. Left with no other option, he was forced to ask, “Does this excite you? Have I succeeded in turning you on yet?"

　

Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. Who ever said romance was dead _clearly_ hadn’t met Sherlock Holmes. “Are you taking the piss?”

 

_“No!”_

 

"Right. Well, that won’t work on me, Sherlock. We’re not in the wild.”

　

"We're in Islington," he frowned, as though anywhere east of W1 could be considered in the same light as the plains of the Serengeti. Sitting bolt upright, almost dislodging himself from the kitchen chair, "I’ve not got that wrong, have I? You do find my throat erotic, don’t you?" He stretched it out again, this time letting the crocheted throw slip from one shoulder coquettishly, whispering all breathy and fake alarm, "Oops!"

　

"Sherlock, I’m going to call John to come get you."

　

" _Noooo_ ," he protested emphatically, "I've declared my affection for you, made myself sexually available. What more do I have to do to prove that I love you?"

　

"You love me?"

 

“I do.” Sherlock looked at her, a soppy smile quirking his lip upward, a hopeful look in his eyes and with a voice so full of genuine love and affection.

 

Molly looked away, there was a sweetness to him like this, and it wasn’t going to take much more coaxing to have worn her defences down completely. After all, was this so very different than when she’d downed a whole bottle of Pinot Grigio to give her Dutch courage when she ended things with Tom? Who else but Sherlock would synthesise a new drug to achieve the same effect.

 

She began to realise that perhaps his thoughts weren’t left undefended by his actions: perhaps they’d been set free.

　

"Are you angry with me?" He asked. When she didn’t answer immediately he added, "You keep looking at the kitchen knives, and quite frankly it’s beginning to worry me."

　

"If you’re so worried," Molly turned, her eyes soft, her lips curving gently, "why are you still here?"

　

"Because your skill with a knife is one of the things I find devastatingly attractive about you." When Molly laughed, he beamed at her, "And Because I’ve waited for years. I’ve waited long enough, and now I want to kiss you."

　

When she raised her eyebrow in challenge, he carried on, "And because some day, I’m going to marry you."

　

"You don’t really mean that." Maybe. Maybe not.

　

"This is never going to work between us if you persist in that attitude," he teased, his voice dark, like silky caramel.

　

Oh dear. She was never going to be able to hold her resolve if he was using The Voice™ - the rumbly, deep sound travelled down her spine. Then lower.

　

He wrapped his arms around her, his gaze filled with sin and sex, a tiny smile crinkled the corner of his eyes. Sherlock’s lush lips hovered mere millimetres from hers, "I’d like very much to kiss you now."

　

Molly felt the evidence of what he'd like very much nudge against her hip. Granny Hooper was no doubt rolling in her grave at the imminent defilement of her blanket.

　

Before her body could stage a revolt and turn traitor on her common sense, before coherent thought would no longer be an option, she told him, "Maybe. In the morning, when you can decide for yourself what you want to say. And do."

 

"You're concerned about taking advantage of me?" Completely unnecessary, but still he found it utterly endearing.

 

"Yes," she nodded.

　

"Fine," he sighed in playful mock exasperation, "we can wait 'til morning. But what I have to say…it won’t change." He pressed his lips to her temple, putting a hand behind her neck to hold her there, his fingertips lightly brushing against her hair.

　　

"Good.” Molly let out a contented little sound. On instinct, she inclined her head, eyes closed to all the better enjoy the sensation of his hands on her skin, “Let’s get you sober, and if you still feel the same tomorrow, then I’ll examine you."

　

“Oh? Something you want to take a closer look at?" Sherlock purred, his lips against her ear. It felt undeniably like foreplay.

　

“Yes,” Molly’s lips twitched into a mischievous smile, she let her hand rest on his luscious backside, "When you stumbled onto my bed, I think you may have injured your thigh." 


End file.
